


Obscurity

by wrennotrobin



Category: Original Work
Genre: ADHD, Anxiety, Blood, Cutting, Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:03:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23877001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrennotrobin/pseuds/wrennotrobin
Summary: So this is a little bit on Ce from my other story, False Promises. There are spoilers to that one here, so just a fair warning.
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a little bit on Ce from my other story, False Promises. There are spoilers to that one here, so just a fair warning.

Let’s add to the growing list of shit I know.

  1. I know I probably should have had a therapist by now
  2. I know I probably should have been on a crap ton of meds by now
  3. I know I probably should have been admitted to the psych ward at least twice by now.
  4. I know I probably should have told someone everything by now.

But surprisingly, i haven’t. People look at me and see an introverted, soccer and book loving bright girl with no problems. But dig down deeper. Down to the blood and bone of my essence. Then you’ll see me for what I am. And you’ll leave me alone in the dark.

I know i'm not the center of attention, but I would have thought someone besides Noah would have noticed. They don’t notice that I wear long sleeves constantly and never take them off. They don’t notice the times I almost break and collapse into a pile of agony on the floor. So if they haven’t noticed, I shouldn’t tell them. 

Does no one see the shards of broken glass carefully hidden in my room? Does no one see the lack of band-aids and gauze in the bathroom? Does no one see me for who I am? Or have I become such an emotionless person that they no longer exist?

I don’t cry when the first line of blood is drawn. I remember looking in the mirror for the first time during. The girl staring back at me wasn’t who everyone thought me to be. She shared the same hair and cheekbones but her eyes were empty and soulless. The lack of emotion even as her blood was dripping steadily onto the floor was what shook me. Now I don’t care. I have learned to hide the blood and pain. The scars are in places that no one looks. They aren’t hidden, but no one cares enough to look for them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This goes along with False Promises, when Lucy first gets treatment.

My phone buzzed. I glanced at it, then caught Noah’s glance from across the room. He jerked his head in response at the door. Standing there in the doorway looking like she was about to pass out was a new girl. As I saw her scan the room, Noah’s description of fresh meat locked into place as her eyes got slightly larger and she shrunk into herself with each injection and beeping machine present. I rolled my eyes. If she couldn’t stand looking at them, then she was in for a real treat once her symptoms got worse. I returned my gaze to the girl and what appeared to be her mother. The head nurse was walking them to a station not far from Noah’s. She looked at me as she passed, and I fought the urge to scream as I got a close look at her face. My reflection gazed back at me as I quickly dropped my gaze to the shiny linoleum floors. Of course it was her. Of course. And she has no idea it was me.I grabbed my phone from the side table and began furiously texting Noah. A devious grin floread across my face as a plan began to form in my head. Oh, I would have fun with this one. Noah sent me back a picture of him grinning in response. I stole one more glance at the girl before hitting the blue call button on my chair.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little insight on Ce’s story.

It started when I was 13. Not at the extreme as it is now, but more subtle. With a fucking nail clipper. I was so desperate for pain, that I was using a nail clipper on my arm seemed like the best idea. It hurt like hell, but didn’t do much damage. The scars have all faded. 

Now I just use glass. I find it better than a knife or a razor blade. It’s funny, the irony of it. How something so clear and beautiful can hold the darkest secrets and cause the most pain. I guess I picked it as my weapon because of how much it relates to my life. Not to sound vain or anything, but I used to be pretty. I started modeling at the age of 4, and people always told me I was pretty. My parents always told me to cover up when I went outside, and they kept me sheltered away like I could break at any moment. It infuriated me that they didn’t trust me to be strong enough to hold myself up. But I guess that’s why I am who I am today. If not for the helicopter parents, I would have never become such a good liar. They roll off my round and into the ears of the recipients. I know how to say what they want to hear, to incorporate the littlest bit of truth to keep them believing. I have become a master of letting others see what they want to see. They look at me and see a beautiful, shiny and delicate girl who is perfectly content to let the sun shine on her and bask in that light. But I know that I have my sharp edge. That’s why I like glass. Everyone thinks they know exactly what I was meant for, and how I should go through with that plan. But they don’t see the broken and sharp part of me until it pricks their skin. Glass is so pretty, and often underestimated. Until a shard of it is in your heel. Then you see how strong it is.

I have learned from a young age how to hold back the tears and keep my head up. I have gone through so many years of verbal abuse. despite that, my mother has the audacity to say that she would die if something happened to me. Well learn to pay attention to your daughter that you claim to love so much. I am your only fucking child. You can’t blame your lack of vision on anything else. You don’t work, you don’t have a consistent hobby that keeps you away from me, although I sometimes wish you did, so there is no excuse for this. If you didn’t notice me breaking down under your words and the scars I have to prove it then don’t you dare shed one fucking tear for me. 

That goes for everyone. If you didn’t see a difference between my highs and lows, if you didn’t hear my silence, then don’t start. Don’t show up with tears in your eyes saying how much you’ll miss me. Don’t take the credit for my minimal happiness. Leave the mounting to those who lost something.


	4. Chapter 4

I hate this. I hate all of it. I can’t take it.    
  


How can I breath with my head underwater?


	5. Chapter 5

No matter how many fucking times I've done this, it still remains one of the more hated side affects. 

i'm talking about tossing cookies.

yodeling groceries

no?

throwing up. Hurling the small contents of your stomach into a clean porcelain bowl.

I really hate throwing up. I hate the tears that I can’t stop from coming into my eyes. I hate the warm bile that rushes forward. I hate the need to empty my stomach that has nothing in it. 

But I’ve gotten used to it. The poor girl next to me definitely hasn’t. She sounds awful.

Sighing, I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and stood from my place next to the toilet. 

I steadied myself on the side of the stall door as my vision flooded.

Right. That was why I hated this. The stars that start dancing around every time I stand up.

I unlocked the stall door to rejoin lunch, but an overwhelming wave of nausea hit me and i turned around and practically threw myself on the toilet. The other girl had left the bathroom by the time I headed out to wash my hands.

The girl in the mirror was excellent at pretending. she looked tired, but not dead yet. Her eyes were hollow only if you stared into the deep center. But no one ever looked that close.

Why the hell would they?


End file.
